


Trinity

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: A life lived in threes.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



Late autumn’s chill crept through the cracks in the window frame, wrapping itself around Joly despite the young man’s efforts to stay warm. He sipped at a steaming cup of coffee as he unfolded a wrinkled, well-read letter from his sister. Adèle’s familiar, tidy handwriting brought a smile to his face and warmed his heart. The letter contained all the expected well-wishes for his health, the usual inquiries into his studies, a litany of reassurances that all was well at home. He was glad for all these things, but it was what she left unwritten that pulled at his heart. He missed the sweeter air of Marseille, the particular cadence and accent of his mother’s voice, the sensation of wholeness that could only be found at home. 

For years he had dreamed of studying in Paris. The idea had consumed him as a boy, driving him on through his studies at lycée until he was at the very top of his class. He spent his free time experimenting with herbs, magnets, and all manner of theoretical remedies. All his pocket money had been devoted to acquiring books and papers, to ensure that he would always be up-to-date on the latest ideas in medicine. 

His departure had been bittersweet. It was thrilling to finally travel toward his dream, but terrifying to leave behind everything and everyone he knew in the world. No amount of reading or experimenting could replace experience and a proper teacher however, so Joly had gathered his courage and packed his belongings. His mother had wept at the mere thought of her youngest making such a long journey by himself. His father had put on a strong show of support and pride in his son, but concern remained palpably beneath the surface. It was his sister who had given him the confidence to go. Adèle had taken his face in her hands, kissed his forehead like a benediction, and made him promise to write. 

Joly’s first letter had been full to bursting with news. That Adèle had been able to decipher his excited, wandering penmanship was a miracle unto itself. The journey to Paris had been long and tiring, but the city had welcomed him with open arms. His lodgings were small, yet comfortable. He had taken to his studies as easily as he ever had, finding just enough challenge to keep from growing bored. Though he missed his family, he was certain that Paris would become a second home in no time at all. 

The second letter he sent spoke of settling in. His rooms had begun to feel more familiar, and he no longer lost his way in the winding streets of Paris. A café around the corner was quickly becoming his favorite haunt between lectures. His studies occupied most of his days, but his marks were good, and he still found time to do some reading on topics that weren’t necessarily endorsed by the university. 

His third letter sat half-written and abandoned on his desk. 

It had taken him so long to write even a greeting that Adèle had sent an extra letter to inquire whether her previous one had been received. Joly stared at his sister’s concerned questions in the late-morning light and shivered slightly. Another sip of his coffee did little to ward off the chill, but he kept his hands wrapped around the cup to keep them warm. 

It wasn’t that he had nothing to write home about. The usual patterns of his day could easily fill a page. The things he most wanted to write were harder to put into words. In the months since his arrival, Paris had lost some of her shimmer. The close quarters and still air of the city were stifling most days. As winter crept closer, the abominable ache in his joints had become a near-constant annoyance, forcing him to rely on his cane more often than not. Though he ate well enough, the food was never quite as appealing as what he had known as a boy. Yet even these were not the worst of his worries. 

He was completely and utterly alone. 

At first, this had not bothered him. So much of his time and energy were devoted to his studies, there was little left for much else. He had never been one to enjoy large crowds, and the constant movement and chatter of a soirée were exhausting just to think about. He missed his sister’s wit and wisdom, the way she could read his thoughts without so much as a word. He longed for the silence they had shared, content to focus their attentions separately, but finding comfort in having the other nearby. Alone, he felt like an incomplete equation. He knew the solution, but without the missing variable, he might as well be trying to make gold from lead. 

When the last of his coffee had gone cold, Joly folded the letter to tuck it away again. His gaze caught on the final lines Adèle had written. Though he had read them a dozen times over, they called out to him anew. 

_ Your studies are important, but my dear Théodore, you must not neglect your heart. A good friend will teach you things that cannot be found in any book _ . 

Joly smiled to himself. She was right, of course. Such was the wisdom of elder sisters. Surely a friend would bring balance to his equation, as Adèle once had. With his heart feeling lighter than it had in days, he gathered up his coat and cane, and made his way out into the cold. 

 

* * *

  
The evening air bit at Musichetta’s exposed cheeks as she walked arm-in-arm with a friend, but she hardly felt the chill. Dinner had been warm and full of laughter, a celebration of another successful performance. Tomorrow, rehearsals would begin for the next. 

There was no rush of emotion quite comparable to the anticipation, joy, and satisfaction that Musichetta found in performing. Her heart swelled from the moment she slipped on her shoes, and her soul sang in concert with the orchestra whenever she took to the stage. She supposed there must have been a time when she feared falling, but the memory was lost beneath years of training, a lifetime of dancing beside some of the most skilled performers in the world. 

Her mother, a belle of the Italian stage, had hoped from the first that her little Marguerite would sing with the same sweet soprano. She heard Mozart more often than lullabies, formed her earliest memories in the dressing rooms of  _ La Scala _ , and had singing lessons before she could write her own name. Every effort was made to coax a song from her lips. Yet, while Musichetta appreciated arias like a fine wine, it was her father she took after. The moment she heard music, Musichetta wanted to  _ move _ . 

The combined influence of her parents gained her entrance to the Paris Opera Ballet School. She exchanged French-accented Italian for Italian-accented French, and spent nearly every waking hour in pursuit of balance, grace, and form. Though her father’s dancing days were ended before they could share the stage, he rarely missed an opportunity to see his daughter perform. Her mother could only smile, knowing that both her dearest loves were dancers. 

Musichetta parted from her companion with a quick kiss to each cheek, and a promise to speak again in the morning. As she soaked in the warmth of her room, and disentangled the fine combs from her hair, she felt a weight fall from her shoulders. She was rarely alone. That was hardly unusual for a young lady in her position. When not in rehearsal or performance, she frequented salons and went shopping with her friends. Her days were busy, her nights were rarely dull. 

And yet she was lonely. 

There was little room for conversation on the stage, not if she wished to keep her place in the corps. Her fellow dancers were charming and sweet when they chatted in the wings, but they rarely strayed from common gossip. The ladies of the salon Musichetta liked best were intimidatingly intelligent, and introduced her to some of the brightest minds Paris had to offer, but she felt no more at home there than she did in a fish market. She shared her bed from time to time, but these partners never lasted long, and rarely appreciated her humor. 

Musichetta sighed and met her own gaze in the mirror. What she needed was an accompanist, someone to dance in step with her, to complete her  _ pas de deux _ . She knew she would not find anyone who could match her wit in the corps, no one in the salon who could make her feel as as bold as her mother, no one in her usual circles who could make her laugh until her sides ached.

That was the trick of it, she supposed. Her mother had not met her father until she stepped outside her circle of fellow singers. And so must she expand her circle if was to find someone who brought her the same measure of joy she observed in her parents. Paris was a lively city, with more people arriving every day. If she was to find a partner, it would be here. 

She sat for a time, braiding her dark hair and considering where to start her search. There were so many possibilities, so many different paths she could follow. How could she possible decide which steps to take when the music was still a faint, distant melody? Only when a yawn overtook her did she admit defeat. Tomorrow, she promised her reflection, she would begin. All she needed was a little luck. 

 

* * *

 

Bossuet wasn’t entirely certain how he had managed to lose his left shoe in the Seine, but it made for an interesting afternoon. He considered, for a short while, the possibility of fishing it out again, but thought better of it after a gust of wind nearly added his hat to the river’s wardrobe. The water would be frigid this time of year, and he knew it was best not to tempt fate when he could help it. He had been on the fence about whether to have the old, worn leather repaired or if he preferred to purchase a new pair, but luck intervened and made the decision for him. As gracefully as he could manage, he removed his remaining shoe and tossed it over the side of the bridge. The paving stones beneath his feet were cold, but it was only a short walk to his current lodgings, so he did not fret over the matter. 

Like his boots, most people and things in Bossuet’s life were transient. His parents were gone. He had a place to call home only once every few months, getting by on the good graces of friends the rest of the time. His hair had thinned to almost nothing before he was old enough to grow a mustache. Even his name changed with regularity. Jean-Baptiste had become Lesgle, then Laigle (Or was it Legle? Even he couldn’t seem to remember which spelling was correct), and now Bossuet. 

Only luck remained.

His constant companion was a blessing and a curse. As often as his luck led him to drop fragile objects or trap him in closets when a mistress’s husband returned home early, it allowed for him to arrive late to class only on days when the teacher was equally delayed, or found him a place to hang his hat when he began to question the pros and cons of sleeping under the stars. Strange occurrences and impossible coincidences were the normal course of his days, and he had learned to accept it all with good humor and grace. 

The constant arrival of new people in his life meant Bossuet was rarely bored, and he always had a story to tell. There were times, however, when he wondered what it might be like to have someone stay, to know another person so well that he need not feel like he was constantly explaining himself, to have a confidant. 

As often as the ache filled his chest, he pushed it away. Over and over again, he had allowed himself to grow attached to friends and lovers. Time and time again, the moment would come that each person would disappear from his life as abruptly as they had arrived. He had long ago given up trying to influence his fate. It usually ended in a result opposite to his desires. If he did not raise his hopes, he could not be disappointed, and when luck intervened in his favor, it made for a pleasant surprise. 

Bossuet stepped directly into a cold puddle, soaking the hem of his trousers. He laughed, much to the confusion of the women passing him, and the young man leaving the café across the street. Of course it was his right foot in the puddle, the shoe he had given willingly to the river. He wished, not for the first time, for someone to share the irony with, to laugh with him when his luck grew restless. What was the point of having an interesting life if there was no one else to see it? 

The ladies moved on and away from his continued laughter as quickly as could be managed, but the young man remained. He stared curiously, eyes drifting between Bossuet’s bare feet and otherwise respectable attire, still as a statue while the city moved around him. It was as though time had stopped in that small part of the street. When Bossuet had finally regained some measure of composure, he looked to the still-staring man and smiled. The stranger looked more confused than judgemental, more amused than appalled. And after a long moment, the smile spread across the street, and soon it was Bossuet staring at a laughing man. 

Perhaps it would be short-lived, but anyone who could laugh so heartily over a stranger’s ill-timed luck was worth befriending. Without another thought, Bossuet crossed the street to introduce himself. 


	2. II

Meeting Bossuet was like falling off a cliff into a field of lavender: sudden and surprising, yet soothing.

There was nothing gradual about the experience. One moment they were strangers, staring at each other and laughing about missing shoes, and the next they were living together and having entire conversations without a word passing between them. It seemed so improbable that he should find the missing variable to his equation in the first attempt, and yet Joly could not imagine a better fit.

Bossuet had an uncanny sense for when Joly was in pain, appearing out of thin air to provide a strong arm to lean on when his knees threatened to give out, or suggesting a cup of tea before he had even realized that he had a headache. While Joly’s good luck did not quite cancel out Bossuet’s more than occasional misfortune, he seemed happier to have someone to share the bizarre and unlikely experiences with. They were almost nothing alike (their families were from opposite ends of the country, Bossuet’s relationship with the law school was as tenuous as Joly’s studies were serious) but they were drawn together as strongly as magnets.

Their friendship was not quite what he had been expecting. It was unlike any he had known before. The constant easy laughter reminded him of his early boyhood and friends left behind in Marseille, while the comfortable silence was like that he had shared with Adèle. And yet, there were things that he could not compare. The way his heart rate elevated at the mere sight of Bossuet’s smile, the discomfort of sleeping alone on the rare occasions that Bossuet spent the night elsewhere, the way the entire world seemed more colorful when he could share it with Bossuet.

The letter to his sister still lay forgotten, but Joly was in no hurry to write it. Not when his days were filled with stories and laughter, and his nights with the familiar snores and solid warmth of Bossuet beside him. For the first time since his arrival in Paris, he felt truly at peace.

 

* * *

 

In the chatter and confusion of the theater lobby, Musichetta had lost track of Louise, and thought it best to stay put until the other woman found her way back. To pass the time, she eavesdropped. It wasn’t polite, but it was difficult to avoid with so many people pressed into so small a space. Most didn’t have anything interesting to say beyond commentary on the scenery or the costumes.

A pair of young men to her left caught her eye as they laughed uproariously over some joke she had missed. They were handsome, each in their own way. The taller of the two had a broad, easy smile, while the shorter shook with mirth. It was the latter who held her attention. There was something about the way he spoke, the way he shaped his vowels that was impossibly familiar.

She tried to search the crowd again for Louise but the young man’s speech filled her ears like an overture. Before she could stop herself, she stepped in his direction. A question rose automatically to her lips, “ _D’ont sètz?_ ” The words felt strange on her tongue, and the pronunciation wasn’t as smooth as it had been in her childhood, but she was clear enough to be understood.

“ _Perdon_?” The young man’s head turned immediately, and he blinked at her as though he had not expected to find anyone there. Startled, yet unconcerned, he corrected himself,  “Mademoiselle.”

Musichetta smiled at him, and asked once more, in French, “Where are you from?”

He blinked again, while his companion simply looked on in amusement. “ _Marselha_. I...forgive me, I have not spoken since I was a boy.” A hint of color rose to the young man’s cheeks and he straightened his posture. “How did you-?”

“Ah, perhaps that was a little rude of me,” she did not blush, but continued to smile. “My father is from Aix, you speak almost the same way.” 

“I see.” He stared, brown eyes intent on hers as if searching for something there. After a moment, he seemed to remember himself (perhaps prodded by his bald companion, she couldn’t quite see). “Forgive me my manners. I wasn’t expecting to hear-” He cleared his throat and made a proper, if awkward introduction, “I am Joly, and this is my friend Bossuet. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle…?”

“Musichetta,” she supplied.

A hint of a smile tugged at the young man’s face, “That is a name I have not heard before.”

“It is a nickname my mother had for me as a girl. To my father, I am Marguerite, but I have known so many who share that name. There are three others just in the corps! But not once have I met another Musichetta.” She didn’t allow time for the confusion to take hold in his face, and continued chattering, “I dance with the Opera Ballet, as my father did.”

Joly laughed, highlighting a pair of dimples in his cheeks, “I am a student of medicine, as my father was not.”

“Does your taste for theater extend to the opera?” she asked. “This season promises to be a good one.”

“I have not had the opportunity to try it. I confess, I have been focused on my studies.” He glanced back at his companion in response to a stifled snicker, but his attention quickly returned.

“We have just begun rehearsing-”

Louise caught her arm suddenly, “There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you.”

Musichetta bit back her frustration and turned to reassure her companion, “I have been here all along.” She painted on a smile and forced herself to bid her acquaintance farewell, “Forgive me, I must be going. I do hope to meet you again, Monsieur Joly.”

Joly’s face turned a distinct shade of pink and he gave a little bow, “I should like that very much.”

Tempted though she was, Musichetta did not glance back as she and Louise made their way out to the street. All the better to hide her own blushing, she reasoned. Sometimes even she was surprised by her own boldness.

“Who were you talking with, ‘Chetta?” Louise gave her a knowing nudge in the side. “He was charming.”

“A new friend, I hope,” she said, and this time she did look back. They were too far away, and hidden by the crowd, but she suspected that Joly and his friend were still in that same corner. She was certain she would meet him again. Luck had brought them together once, why not a second time?

 

* * *

 

 

As much as he hated to admit it, Bossuet could feel the change as soon as it began. It was with uncomfortable familiarity that he saw the awkwardness that grew between himself and Joly as the days wore on. They went through the motions - sharing meals, walking together, laughing over the newest misspelling of his name - but the strain was palpable.

He couldn’t put a name to what he shared with Joly. It was something more than friendship, something sweeter than what he’d found in the arms of a mistress, something that had been missing from his life until now. Day by day, he had been more convinced that Joly would stay in his life. They were more like one person than a pair, the mind and body of a single soul, completing each other in innumerable ways.

But perhaps he had been lying to himself all along, and Joly would prove to be as ephemeral as the rest of his life’s encounters.

It was impossible to miss the way that Joly’s attention drifted when Musichetta was around. She was bright, dazzling almost, and Bossuet found himself similarly distracted at times. He could see the pain in Joly’s expressions as he tried to reconcile one relationship with another, and it nearly broke his heart. Musichetta, for her part, seemed delighted to share Joly’s company, but unaware of the anxiety it caused him. She did not see the way Joly picked at his breakfast, or the way he hesitated to leave Bossuet’s side whenever he went out to meet her.

The guilt was almost overwhelming. Surely Joly would not suffer so if he did not feel an obligation to Bossuet. It was no secret that he had no other place to call home for the moment, and few friends to spend his days with. It would be easier, quicker to leave them to their happiness. It was not the first time a mistress had separated Bossuet from a dear friend, and he knew the pain that came from trying to salvage a friendship in the aftermath. Luck would lead him to another place, another friend, another home. It was only a matter of time.

Bossuet composed a dozen letters in his head to leave behind for Joly, but the words were never right. He tried to pack up his life on several occasions while his friend was out with Musichetta, but something always went missing at the last moment. When he misplaced the spare key to Joly’s rooms, he considered leaving everything behind, to start fresh with only his luck to guide him. It would hurt Joly in the short term, but Musichetta would restore him to his usual bright demeanor in no time, while Bossuet would have another story to share the next time his luck found him a friend. All he needed to do was turn around and leave.

He stayed.


	3. III

The letter was long overdue. Joly had tried on numerous occasions to write it, but time seemed to slip away from him these days. When not absorbed in his studies, he was busy with political work. The rest of his time was dedicated to Bossuet and Musichetta. By the time he put pen to paper, he was usually too exhausted to form words. Still, he continued to make attempts. His sister would only accept silence for so long. 

Yet the page stared back at him, empty of all but a salutation and a date from last week. There was too much to say, and he didn’t know where to begin.

A familiar pair of hands covered his eyes from behind, and he had to set his pen aside. “Bossuet?” he guessed. The only answer was a muffled laugh. Joly smiled, “Ah, it must be Musichetta, then.” The giggling grew stronger, and he quickly realized his mistake, “How foolish of me. Of course it is both of you at once.”

They gave him his sight back and he couldn’t help but laugh at the mismatched pair. Musichetta was dressed for the evening ahead, her hair curled and pinned just so, while Bossuet was in his shirtsleeves, and missing his shoes. Yet their smiles and fond expressions were impossibly alike.

“You looked all together too serious,” Bossuet insisted. “Like that letter had insulted you terribly.”

“It’s lucky that I have you to rescue me, then.” Joly had quickly come to love Bossuet’s particular gift for knowing when he was at his limit. Every time he grew frustrated with his studies or the ache in his knees had him gritting his teeth, Bossuet would appear with a story or a laugh to distract him.

“Indeed. Had I left you to it much longer, that scowl might have been permanent. That would be an unfortunate expression for a doctor, I should think.”

Musichetta pressed a kissed to Joly’s brow, and he could feel the smile in her lips as she did, “Who are you writing to?"

“My sister, Adèle.” It hadn’t taken him long to recognize the similarities between the two women. He had missed Adèle’s wit and wisdom, and found Musichetta’s humor and charm to make him feel whole again. “You would like her, I think.”

“If she is anything like you, my dear, I am certain I would,” she kissed him again, this time on the tip of his nose. “Do not be long, or we’ll be late.” With that, she disappeared to help Bossuet find his missing shoes.

Joly watched them go, one graceful and light on her feet, the other sturdy and unafraid. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. One and one made two, but it was not the only possible equation. It had taken time and patience to understand, but the solution was as obvious as it was simple.

He scrawled a quick line at the bottom of his letter before rising to join the other two.

_All is well_.

 

* * *

 

To walk arm-in-arm with her boys was to be whole. Her father and her friends did not understand, but it did not matter to Musichetta what the rest of the world thought. Joly had brought her joy, but he was incomplete without Bossuet at his side. She laughed to think how easily she had missed this fact in the early days of their acquaintance. Bossuet had been there from the very start, never far from Joly’s side. When her circle finally grew to include both men, her world had changed dramatically.

Their _pas de trois_ was nothing like the accompaniment she had expected to find.

Once they were all together, everything became clear. The discord and tension resolved into a harmony as sweet and moving as any aria, and Musichetta’s heart sang in concert with theirs. Joly was a solid, unmoving note at the root of the chord, while Bossuet soared above and moved in parallel to him. She was happiest in the middle, surrounded by sound and connected to them both in different ways. Their melody was familiar, bright, and beautiful, and she all but danced through the streets once she learned to hear it.

Though they were sometimes separated by circumstance, they fell back into step without ever missing a beat. Mornings together were filled with wordplay, a constant supply of puns and little jokes shared over breakfast to start the day. An afternoon spent with Bossuet while Joly was studying resulted in all manner of misadventures that would shock the gentle sensibilities of her friends in the corps. She could pass an entire day in discussion with Joly and never notice the time, exchanging the wisdom of her salon for the knowledge of his medical texts.

Perhaps what Musichetta appreciated most was the quiet evenings. After a full day, she was never more pleased than on those nights she could return to Bossuet and Joly. There were times when they said very little, content just to be together. Instead, they conversed in small gestures - a touch to an elbow, a kiss to a cheek, the gentle press of hands. She would not trade her quiet evenings for any stage in the world.

 

* * *

 

Bossuet was the last to climb into bed, after checking to make sure that the shutters were properly closed against the pending storm. Joly had already drifted to sleep, and was as immovable as a boulder in the center of the bed. Musichetta was curled close at his side, one hand resting delicately in his. For a long moment, Bossuet could only stare at the two in disbelief, while the candle in his hand flickered every time he breathed. 

“Something on your mind?” Musichetta whispered.

Her eyes caught the candlelight like precious stones, and the warm glow brought out the red undertones of Joly’s hair. Bossuet had been so sure that no one would ever stay in his life. Yet here were two who refused to leave. A person was more than just a body. In Joly and Musichetta he had found his mind and his soul, and felt complete. He couldn’t imagine a world without both. 

“Only that I must be the luckiest man in France, if not the world over.” 

She smiled, “If you got under the covers, you’d be lucky  _ and _ warm.” 

He laughed quietly to himself and extinguished the candle. Carefully, so as not to wake Joly, he crawled beneath the blankets. The smaller man shivered at the breath of cold air that reached his limbs and shifted to make himself more comfortable. Bossuet reached out in the dark until his hand found Musichetta’s hair. He wound his fingers into her curls and felt the day’s exhaustion drain from his limbs. With Joly snoring quietly against his chest, and Musichetta tangled around them both, Bossuet smiled. He didn’t have a word to describe what they shared, but he intended to hold onto them forever. 

 

 


End file.
